Wedded
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: He can’t think of one without thinking of the other. Rated T for themes.


Disclaimer: I own neither NCIS nor the characters involved. This is for entertainment only, I make no money from this.

Spoilers: Twilight

Credits: Thank you to Kate98 and Rinne for the betas. You guys are great. Really.

Author's Note: Previously published in the livejournal flashfiction community (_www_dot_livejournal_dot_com_slash_community_slash_ncis_underscore_flashfic_) for the challenge 'Marriage'.

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**Wedded**

Sex and death. They're wedded together in his mind, bound tight. He can't think of one without thinking of the other.

Sex brings life, but dreams of birth signal a death. He deals with death by seeking sex… it's a sickness that will kill him someday.

Casual sex is like Russian Roulette: does she have something? Or maybe her? What kind of a risk is it today? Funny, that – given his habits – he's not dead already. He thinks of candles and dark curtains – it wasn't blood that vampires sought, but Victorians could never admit to liking anything, so if it felt good it had to be evil. Sometimes, late at night when there's no one to distract him, no one to help him escape his thoughts, no work to be done… sometimes he wonders if they weren't right.

Kate would tell him that lust is a deadly sin, but beautiful Kate can't do that anymore. There was attraction, and then destruction. Sex turned to death so quickly… only at the moment of annihilation did he finally taste her – at that moment, the two blended so perfectly.

Should he go to Hell for that? He thinks maybe.

_'Till Death, do us part._ Even the Church has got it in there, death in the vows they make you take before they'll approve of sex. The worst calls are domestic disturbance calls. The most brutal murders are crimes of passion.

He stares at himself, poorly reflected, gaunt and pale from nights of not sleeping, days of not eating properly and thoughts he'll never confess. _Dracula_ he thinks. _Nosferatu_. The living dead. But maybe living's the wrong word for it.

He used to enjoy himself. He used to have fun and enjoy the sunshine. Those days are gone now – sunlight hurts his eyes. And the thought, the thought… it's never been more seductive.

"Tony." It's not the voice he expected. No harsh bark, no implied reprimand. But what's _this_ guy doing here at this time of night?

"Yeah?" Though, it fits that a doctor to the dead should attend him.

"How are you feeling?"

Such a funny question. The dead don't feel. But Ducky thinks they do, so he lies. "Fine."

"Tony." This time Ducky's voice carries a gentle warning. "Don't expect me to believe that. You haven't been yourself for a while now."

That's true, which is why everyone can't handle it now that the real Anthony DiNozzo has shown up. They kept _wanting_ him to be more responsible, more middle of the road… _be careful what you wish for._

"You should go home. Get some sleep."

Now he looks up, blinking slowly like a predator watching its target. "Like Gibbs?" His voice is mild, almost threatening. Gibbs can sleep through anything. When the time is there, he just sleeps, like it's simply another task, like paperwork, or having a meal. "I'm not like Gibbs, Duck. I'm not someone you should rely on."

Ducky blinks, then puts on his doctor face, the one they teach all students in medical school. The one that says 'I'm listening, and I care.' The funny thing about Ducky is that he can make it look real. Or maybe it is real, proving the adage that there's no fool like an old fool. He shouldn't care.

"Do you believe in God?" He asks, not because it matters what Ducky believes, but because he needs the opening to tell the old man the truth.

"I believe…" He can hear the caution in the tone, see the struggle to find words that won't offend. It's a cardinal rule of negotiation, too, one they even teach to rookies: don't get a nutcase talking about God, because he might decide it's worth dying for.

"I don't." He says it bluntly – his reward is the shocked look on the old man's face. "Because if there was a God, if there was justice, then Kate would be alive. If there was a God, and he actually _cared_ about mankind, then he would not have allowed this to happen. We've got people out there, blowing themselves and everyone else up over God. _Kate_ believed in God, and look how much good that did _her_." He can feel his heart pounding and his breathing increasing. His body aches at the mere thought, at the sweet promise of nothing. That's another bonus to 'No God': nothing beyond that final instant. No heaven, no hell… just an end. Oh, God, he wants it, more than anything.

Ducky pulls up a chair, destroying any hope of fulfillment. He can't do it with someone watching, especially not a kindly old man like this. He can't do it here anyway… there are too many people watching: all the cameras, all the other late-nighters – though few, they're here. No, it's a private act, and this man won't leave him alone.

"Just because Kate died, doesn't mean that God doesn't exist." It's as though Ducky knows that once there was an Anthony DiNozzo that believed so fervently in goodness and mercy and righteousness, that felt he _knew_ God and loved him beyond everything, but that Anthony DiNozzo has disappeared along with everything he once worshiped. _This_ Anthony DiNozzo knows what the baptism of blood really means. Not eternal life, but living death.

He thinks of something horrible, a memory that might convince this man who thinks he's seen it all. " 'Suffer the little children', Duck. Well, I've _seen_ them suffer. You ever see a kid who spent his whole short life in a closet? Whose mom went out one day and never came back, and he had to just sit there and cry until he died of thirst because there was no water, no nothing? You ever seen a baby left to rot in its crib for weeks because its parents were too stoned to give a shit? I have. And it goes on every day, every minute, while we sit in our nice comfy chairs and sleep in our nice comfy beds, so don't sit there and _tell_ me there's a God and that he cares." He never speaks of these things – no one does. Those who never see don't want to hear, and those that do see don't want to be reminded. Hot tears pour down his face, burning into his skin. His head bows, too heavy to be supported. He feels a gentle hand on the back of his neck, almost a benediction.

"Killing yourself won't save them, Tony." How does Ducky know that? How does… "A very wise man once said: 'There is no justice. There is just us.' Just you, me, Jethro and Abby and Timothy… you say there is no God… if you're right, then we have to stand up for the innocent. _We_ have to say: 'this is wrong, I will not allow it to happen.' If you don't take care of yourself, who wins?"

"Nobody wins, Ducky, that's the whole point." The desk blotter muffles his words, but they still hold truth. Nobody ever won. There was no point in the game. None. So why not just quit?

"You were wrong, Jethro." Ducky's voice is so quiet it's barely audible.

"What?" When was Gibbs ever wrong? What did he say that now became untrue?

" 'He'll be fine. For one thing, we don't have kids here.'" The words are sharp and the sentences short, Ducky's clearly quoting. "But he didn't realise one important thing: it's not about children, is it? You're hard on Timothy for the same reason Jethro barks at you – it's so he'll learn to look after himself, isn't it? You want to keep him safe, you wanted to keep Caitlin safe…"

"Great job there," he mutters. He clearly taught her all the nothing he knew, because _neither_ of them had been on guard for anything.

"You forget… Caitlin was prepared to lay down her life, that's how _she_ learned to protect…"

"She wasn't protecting _anybody_." He snaps his head up. "We _knew_ there was a risk, she shouldn't have been up on that rooftop to begin with. It wasn't a sacrifice for the greater good, Duck, she was a victim and it could have been prevented." He used to think Gibbs knew what he was doing, now he's not so sure. Maybe Marines are trained to accept casualties as just part of the job, but cops aren't. A lot of cops can go their whole career and never use their gun outside of a practice range. In the PD… what kind of an idiot organisation let a _subordinate_ do the baby-sitting? In the PD, Gibbs wouldn't have had the opportunity to go after Ari, because there'd be another bunch of cops to do it for him. The whole _team_ would have been sat on, escorted and kept the hell away from the streets. Kate couldn't be blamed, because she had a bunch of _idiots_ above her, dragging her along. Like Ducky just said, she'd been trained to protect, the director assigned her to protect Gibbs… why didn't he just shoot her himself? Her blood was on all their hands.

And he was the worst of them all. He _knew_ it was wrong, even as he went along with it. He just kept his mouth shut, like those guys in the Ford boardroom while the Exploding-Pinto debate went on. _Silence is as good as support._ Hell, the only person who did what they were _supposed_ to, was Ari. He said he was going to get Kate, and he got Kate. It wasn't his fault that the band of idiots made it easy. He lets his head drop back to the desk again. "Just go home, Ducky. Haven't you got a mother to look after?" It's more than he's got. Ducky has his mother, Gibbs has his boat and McGee and Abby have each other, or some digital buddies to play with.

"She's asleep. And I really am old enough to be out on my own late at night." There's the sound of the chair rolling slightly on the floor as Ducky stands, and footsteps as he leaves. The good doctor isn't gone long though, returning with a soggy sandwich from the cafeteria vending machine. "It's not a lot, but it should serve to get your blood sugar up long enough for us to find a place that serves something more nutritious."

"Are you asking me out to dinner, Ducky?" Incredulity makes him raise his head. He must be hearing things, now.

"Tony, you survive – and I use that term very loosely – on food, and again I'm speaking broadly, that isn't fit for regular human consumption. Your brain can literally starve to death on what you eat, and I don't care how much of it you're eating, and according to Jethro, lately that hasn't been much. I believe him – you look horrible. And despite what he and Abby may have led you to believe, the human body can _not_ survive on caffeine alone. And I…" Ducky unwraps the sandwich and places it neatly on a napkin before putting it down on the desk, "…do not wish to perform another autopsy on someone I've had a recent conversation with."

He doesn't want to eat – just the thought makes him queasy – but even Gibbs knows better than to argue with Ducky. "I thought I just read somewhere that hotdogs help you live longer." This time the words are muffled through a full mouth. His mother would have smacked him silly for something like that, but Ducky doesn't even blink.

"Yes, and hemlock is also an effective pain reliever. Just because sodium nitrite can apparently help with specific medical problems, does _not_ mean you get a free pass to scarf down as many hotdogs as you can. Nor, might I add, does relish count as a vegetable. You have got to start looking after yourself, my boy. Take it from me, youth does not last forever."

"You're doing pretty well for an old man." Most people Ducky's age are retired or – face it – dead. Whatever the secret is, it's a good one.

"Don't get smart with me, or you'll find out that I still have a pretty good right hook."

"Okay," he surrenders, scraping at the back of one of his teeth to loosen a piece of processed cheese. "As long as it tastes better than this." He sets the sandwich down and stands up, grabbing his jacket from the floor beside his chair. "And you're buying."

"Of course I'm not." Ducky's smile now looks slightly evil. "You still owe me for that bet."

"What bet?" He doesn't remember ever placing a bet with Ducky. For one thing, they have completely different views on what constitutes 'football.'

"The office pool." There's definitely a look of shark about the old man as he presses the button for the elevator. "When is Mr. Palmer going to get fired?"

"You know about that?" Then it hits. He didn't. He couldn't have, not this nice, sweet and above all _honest_ old man. "You didn't bet, did you? Ducky, you're the guy who gets to decide when to fire him! That's not fair!"

"Yes, well…" Ducky adjusts his hat as the doors close and they begin their descent to the garage. "Nobody ever said Jethro was the only evil bastard around here."

He laughs. Food and happiness. They're wedded together in his mind, and he can't think of one without thinking of the other. His stomach growls.


End file.
